You were always here
by scarxtardis
Summary: Sherlock returns to 221b Baker Street 3 years after his "suicide."  The reaction from John wasn't one he was expecting- later, he finds out why John is acting so strangely... post Reichenbach.


_This is it._

It'd been three years since his so called death, three years since his famous suicide, and Sherlock Holmes was standing at the door of his old home. As he reached out and caresses the metal sign reading 221b with his long fingers in front of him, a shaky breath escaped his lungs. The smell of old nicotine and freshly brewed tea drifted to Sherlock's nose.

The smell of home.

Sherlock inhaled, and slowly lifted his clenched fist to knock on the door. After three knocks, he retreated from the door, just one step back. One was enough. Sherlock straightened his navy blue scarf, patted down his billowing coat, and preserved himself.

After a minute, Sherlock heard some rattling from behind the wooden door. "I'm coming," A tired voice sighed, and a small half-smile crept onto Sherlock's face. The slight gesture of emotion felt foreign on Sherlock's face. He soon realised why.

This was the first time Sherlock had smiled in three years.

After the rattling stop, the lock in the door creaked, and it was pushed open by a slight figure. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat.

John.

Sherlock's mouth opened slightly. John looked as tired as he had sounded- more tired, in fact. Heavy dark rings circled his eyes, and his hair, the sandy-blonde crop Sherlock had remembered, had grown longer, a fringe hanging over his forehead. The colour had dulled to a mousey brown. John's muscular and sturdy body had lost a lot of weight, and his clothes, a button-up shirt and crumpled trousers, hung loosely off him.

Sherlock's face softened. These were all the signs of a person fighting with fierce depression.

"Hello, John." Sherlock croaked, and he noticed his voice was cracking. He watched John's face, searching John's blue-grey eyes, awaiting his reaction- a shout, a punch, a cry, a faint… he knew he deserved whatever was coming.

Instead, much to Sherlock's surprise, John sighed. He frowned to himself, looked around outside the door, and walked back into the foyer of the two flats, as if no one was there. "Bloody teenagers." John whispered to himself.

Sherlock stood, dumbfounded, in the threshold. He followed John inside, frowning. He knew John would be angry at him- furious, in fact- but he didn't think for one second that John would be so mad he's ignore Sherlock completely.

"John?" Sherlock followed John up the stairs, his mouth bone dry. His hand trembled as it clutched the polished timber bannister. John didn't turn around. Sherlock sped up the stairs and strode into the flat after John.

John was sitting in the armchair next to the fireplace. Sherlock's supple leather armchair was still sitting there across from John's matching one. Sherlock had hoped John had gotten rid of it, to prove that he'd gotten over the death of his best friend. Apparently not.

John was massaging his temple, a pained look on his face. Sherlock's brow creased with concern.

"John, I- I'm sorry. For everything I've done." Sherlock whispered, stooping down to meet John's eye. John had his eyes closed, as if he had a terrible migraine. "I know you may want to ignore me, and I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I beg of you, please say something."

John scratched his head and hoisted himself out of his chair, and strolled over to the kitchen. Sherlock sighed heavily. As sorry as he was, he wasn't in the mood for John's dramatic reaction. He trailed after John and sat down at the table. Sherlock ran his hands over the corroded surface, recognising every dint and divot in the wood, and which experiments they'd came from.

"Won't you talk to me?" Sherlock got up and stood next to John's shoulder, inhaling John's scent. Warm toast and cologne. Oh, how he'd missed that scent. Sherlock noted that he wasn't wearing the same cologne Sherlock had remembered he had worn- then he realised the brand John used to wear was given to him by Sherlock for his thirty-sixth.

John didn't answer, and silently reached into the medicine cupboard and pulled out two aspirins. Sherlock gave up, and began walking around the flat, taking in all the small differences. The goat skull on the wall had disappeared. The red carpet (that was white when John had bought in) had vanished. Sherlock's eyes actually pricked slightly at the sight of the human skull on the mantelpiece sported the one and only deer-stalker.

The yellow spray-paint smiley face on the wall wasn't gone completely- only hidden by a gilt- framed photograph of John and a strange woman. A blonde in an elaborate white dress was gazing lovingly into John's eyes. John was dressed in a tuxedo, and was watching the woman just as adoringly. Sherlock's stomach tightened.

"You got married." Sherlock said it as a statement, not a question. John's lip quirked up at the side, and Sherlock, relieved he had gotten a slight reaction from John, sat down in his chair. Sherlock wondered what she- John's wife- was like, what the wedding was like... It was now when he realised John had a golden ring on his left hand. The sight of it made Sherlock stomach drop.

John remained silent.

Both Sherlock and John jolted when a tune resonated throughout the flat. Sherlock almost let out a small yelp when he realised what the song was. Auld Lang Syne. John's ringtone.

"Greg!" John smiled to himself, and Sherlock did too when he heard Lestrade's voice on the other end of the line. "Yep. I'll be right there." Sherlock couldn't make out what Lestrade was saying, but he knew John was off to meet him. John got up and walked over to his coat hanger, and pulled off a small, dark-blue trench coat. It was almost the same as Sherlock's, except it was a lighter blue and a lost smaller. Sherlock felt an elation he'd never felt before.

As John marched down to the street and called a cab, it was as if Sherlock didn't even exist. "Scotland Yard." They ordered the cab driver in unison.

Soon enough, they were out the front of Scotland Yard. Sherlock wasn't used to John, little John, striding ahead of himself. He wasn't used to feeling the least superior one. He was always in front of John. And when he wasn't, they walked at the same pace.

At the entrance to the police station, the man out front nodded at John. "Doctor Watson." John nodded curtly back. Sherlock didn't recognise the man. They entered the door together, and the three policemen sitting in the foyer turned and smiled at John. Their eyes didn't even drift over to Sherlock. They only noticed John.

The pair walked down the winding corridors. Gasps and murmurs echoed around them. "He's alive?" "Impossible!" "Bloody hell, he's back." Sherlock wished he was invisible, but John didn't even notice. When they reached Lestrade's office, Sherlock waited outside, wondering how he could greet him.

He heard John and Lestrade chit-chatting inside, the weather, how Lestrade's date with Molly went- _Molly_- the name struck a chord with Sherlock, and about the newest court case. Sherlock, knowing what he was going to say- nothing- strolled through the door.

Lestrade, who was listening intently to John, looked over his shoulder, and the ceramic mug of hot coffee he was holding came crashing onto the floor. Lestrade jumped to his feet. He seemed lost for words, maniacal babblings escaping his mouth. John frowned, and slowly turned and looked at Sherlock.

"How- _when…?_ What- Jesus _CHRIST."_

Sherlock forced a weak smile at Greg, and walked over to him. They gripped hands, and Lestrade was shaking. John stood in the corner, a confused frown on his face, turning his eyes from Lestrade to Sherlock. Tears were forming in his eyes. A small sentence escaped his lips.

"You- you can see him, too?"


End file.
